"It was rather hard for poor Milton, though, wasn't it, papa?"

"Wait till he says so, my dear. We are sometimes too ready with our
sympathy, and think things a great deal worse than those who have to
undergo them. Who would not be glad to be struck with _such_ blindness as
Milton's?"

"Those that do not care about his poetry, papa," answered Constance, with a
deprecatory smile.

"Well said, my Connie. And to such it never can come. But, if it please
God, you will love Milton before you are about again. You can't love one
you know nothing about."

"I have tried to read him a little."

"Yes, I daresay. You might as well talk of liking a man whose face you had
never seen, because you did not approve of the back of his coat. But you
and Milton together have led me away from a far grander instance of what we
had been talking about. Are you tired, darling?"

"Not the least, papa. You don't mind what I said about Milton?"

"Not at all, my dear. I like your honesty. But I should mind very much if
you thought, with your ignorance of Milton, that your judgment of him was
more likely to be right than mine, with my knowledge of him."

"O, papa! I am only sorry that I am not capable of appreciating him."